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Grinning, he shook his head. ‘We’re meeting my cousin. And this is not a field. It’s an apple orchard. My apple orchard,’ he said softly, taking her hand in his again. ‘A long time ago the estate used to make all its own cider.’
Biting her lip, she looked at him nervously. ‘Your cousin? Won’t that be a little awkward? I mean, he knows we’re married...’
Her voice sounded shrill and shaky and, frowning, Laszlo pulled her towards him.
‘Take it easy. I have about thirty cousins. This is a different one.’ Gently, he pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘This is my cousin Mihaly.’ He paused and studied her face speculatively. ‘He doesn’t know we’re married. Only my great-uncle and my cousin Matyas know.’
He grimaced.
‘And they’re not here. Not that they’d say anything to anybody anyway,’ he said slowly. ‘I promise. You’d have more luck having a conversation with Besnik than you would at getting a word out of either of them.’
Squeezing her hand, he squinted into the horizon. ‘There he is.’
He lifted his arm and waved at the outline of a man riding on horseback.
‘That’s Mihaly.’
Feeling somewhat calmer, Prudence let out a breath as he raised his hand to greet his cousin.
‘Mihaly! How are you?’
Smiling shyly, Prudence turned to where Laszlo was waving and then gasped softly. Not at the dark-haired man sliding off the bare back of a sleepy-eyed white cob, but at the caravan behind the horse.
‘Oh. That is so beautiful,’ she whispered. ‘Is that a vardo?’ Blushing, she glanced at Laszlo and he nodded slowly.
He dropped her hand and walked swiftly towards his cousin. The men hugged one another and then Laszlo turned. Reaching towards Prudence, he tugged her forward by the hand.
‘Mihaly, this is Prudence. She’s working for my grandfather. Prudence—my cousin Mihaly. He’s like a brother to me and he’s a good friend. Just don’t let him sing to you.’
Mihaly grinned and inclined his head. ‘And don’t let him play a guitar.’ He winced. ‘I’m still having trouble in this ear. And now, cousin, where do you want me to put this—because I need to be getting back.’ He turned towards Prudence and grinned sheepishly. ‘My wife is having our fifth child any time now, so I need to get home as soon as possible.’
After much manoeuvring, Laszlo and Mihaly finally managed to guide the vardo between the apple trees and across the fields to the cottage. Having detached the shafts from the pulling harness, Mihaly waved cheerfully and rode away.
Prudence stared at the vardo in wonder. ‘When I was a little girl I had a storybook with a picture of a vardo in it. But I’ve never been this close to one before,’ she murmured.
‘Take a look inside.’ Laszlo gestured towards the vardo. ‘There’s a bed and a dresser and a stove.’
Prudence climbed up the steps and then trod lightly inside the vardo. It was just perfect, with intricately painted roses and castles and bright embroidered cushions. She swallowed and climbed back down.
There was a moment’s silence and then Laszlo said quietly, ‘So, what do you think?’
His voice sounded hesitant and, glancing across, Prudence saw that his expression was strained—anxious, almost. Guiltily she remembered how he’d accused her of shunning his family. Clearly he wanted to know what she thought of his cousin.
She smiled. ‘He seemed nice.’
Laszlo laughed. ‘Not Mihaly! The vardo. Do you really like it or are you just being polite?’ He stared at her, his gaze intent, a line of doubt on his forehead.
‘N-no, of course I’m not just being polite,’ she stammered. ‘It’s beautiful. Really. You’re very lucky,’ she said teasingly. ‘A castle and a vardo! That’s just plain greedy.’
He grinned, and then his expression shifted, grew serious. He looked at her levelly. ‘Actually, the vardo isn’t mine. I’ve just been holding on to it for someone.’
She held her breath, sensing a tightness in him—a sort of eagerness. ‘Whose is it?’ she whispered. But even before he could reply she already knew the answer to her question. ‘Is it mine?’ she asked hesitantly.
He nodded, watching as her look of shock and confusion turned to happiness. ‘It was supposed to be my wedding gift to you.’
He hadn’t planned on telling her that the vardo was hers. He’d simply wanted to show it to her, for he’d known that it would soften her. A woman would have to have a heart of stone not to be ensnared by the romanticism of a real gypsy caravan.
She turned to smile at him and he smiled back. But his smile was hollow, for seeing her genuine pleasure made him feel shabby and manipulative and he felt a stab of jealousy. With shock, he realised that he wanted to share in her happiness. That he actually liked making her happy.
